Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  The gun! I claw at his face, trying to break his iron grip on my arm. Sweating, panting, and cursing, we roll in the dirt, all traces of humanity lost in our desperate struggle. He reaches for the gun with his free hand. If I can get to it first…

  I double up a fist and swing hard at his Adam’s apple. He gags and grabs his throat with both hands. I crawl toward the gun. He catches the hood of my jacket and yanks me back. As he scrambles after the gun, I dive on his foot and sink my teeth into his bony ankle, nearly gagging from the rancid taste of his skin. He gives a yelp of pain. I bite down harder.

  “Crazy bitch!” he snarls, flailing away at me.

  I try to deflect his wild swings, but he lands a fierce blow on the side of my head. Stunned and deaf in one ear, I feel my jaw go slack. He jerks away and goes for the gun. I scramble up. Gun or no gun, I’ll make a run for it and pray he’s a poor shot.

  I take off like a scalded rabbit, Venable on my tail.

  As I head for the wide gate, a car pulls in and parks in the opening.

  Robinson Hunt steps out.

  “Stop her!” Venable yells.

  Hunt blocks the narrow passage between his car and the gate. I try to dart around the front of the car to the other side. He kicks out at my legs, and I go down, sprawling face first in the dirt. A sharp knee in the middle of my back pins me to the ground. I feel the gun press against me.

  Venable is breathing hard and cussing. “Nighty night, sweetheart,” he says.

  I don’t have to pretend this time. “No, please. Don’t do it. I’ll …”

  My plea is interrupted by a jolt of excruciating pain. The breath leaves my body. All rational thought gone, except for Please, God, make it stop. If I’m dying, let it be quick.

  Locked in a spasm of agony, unable to move or speak, I’m borne aloft for a dozen steps. A metal door opens with a screech, and I’m tossed unceremoniously onto a dirt floor. Rough hands dig through my pockets, removing flashlight, car keys, and cell phone.

  I hear the door slam, the snick of a padlock, and Gordon Venable’s parting comment: “Have fun with Betsy, our black widow spider. She’s looking forward to company.”

  Chapter 29

  Switching muscles. Waves of nausea. Someone moaning. Me?

  My power of reasoning returns slowly, bits and pieces of information sifting through my brain … not a real gun … a taser … I’m not dead … I’m locked in a metal storage shed with … a black widow spider!

  Mobilized by panic, I roll to my stomach and squat in the stifling shed. In my dazed, crazed state, I think I see Betsy’s shiny, black body as she marches toward me on eight hideously long legs, spidey senses atingle. This scares me more than a dozen Gordon Venables.

  Filthy, sweating and cringing in the dark, I take deep breaths and talk to myself in my head: Get a grip, Allegra. That spider’s not interested in you. She’s busy eating her mate. But, oh, shit! What if she’s still hungry? Maybe he was just an appetizer, and here you are all warm, sweaty, and tasty. Don’t go there! Even if she bites you, you won’t die. On the other hand, if you don’t get out of this shed, you will die!

  I visualize in sickening detail how Venable will do it. He’ll hit me with the taser again, and I’ll be in the river before the clock strikes midnight.

  I stand on quivering legs and do an abbreviated version of my spider dance, flicking a hand through my hair and stomping my feet. Carefully pulling the hood over my hair, I vow to forget about Betsy. I stumble around the shed, groping in the dark for something to use as a weapon when Venable comes for me. A hoe or shovel would be nice; a hammer, even better.

  A gust of wind tosses dirt and gravel against the side of the metal shed and brings in a welcome draught of fresh air. Suddenly, briefly, the interior of the shed is illuminated with a flash of lightning. Automatically, I pause and count, one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, as Grandpa Mort taught me years ago. One thousand six. Thunder booms. Six miles away. The storm is coming closer.

  I have to find a weapon.

  Taking baby steps, I shuffle through the shed waving my arms in front of me. Thanks to the lightning, I’ve had a quick look around. The shed, made of corrugated metal, is long and narrow with a high ceiling. A few more steps, and I bump into a dozen heavy bags stacked up against the wall. Manure, I deduce from the smell. No hammer. No hoe.

  Two long steps to the left, and my toe strikes something hard. Groping blindly, I trace the outline of what feels like a broken wine barrel probably tossed into the shed by a day worker. With only my hands for eyes, I locate a stave that’s come partially loose. I grab it with both hands and yank, bracing my foot against the body of the barrel. It resists for a moment and then pops free with a squeak and groan. I feel the heft of the board and smile.

  I have a weapon.

  The wind picks up. Rain pounds against the metal roof. Another flash of lightning and a few heartbeats later, a deafening crack of thunder makes me shriek and clap my hands over my ears. The storm is directly overhead. Gripping the board in my left hand, I explore the rest of the shed and hear a pitiful meow.

  “Kitty, kitty,” I call. Though I doubt he has Vlad’s killer instinct, I’ll settle for companionship. I track the sound to the corner where I found the barrel. I tap on the wall and talk to the cat. “Hey, buddy. What’s up? You staying dry?”

  I hear him answer, and it’s coming from above. Must be a tree next to the shed. The cat, bruised, battered, and frightened by the storm, probably took shelter there.

  Another flash of lightning. I count and wait for the sound of thunder. Ten seconds this time. The rainstorm is over, blown further south by the brisk wind. Through a good-sized crack in my corner of the shed, I can see the moon starting to appear behind fast-moving clouds.

  I reach up to investigate the crack and get a handful of sticky spider web. I scream, flicking and rubbing my hand against my jeans, the hair on the back of my neck prickling with horror. I dance around my cramped quarters like a woman possessed, hoping in the process I’ll stomp a spider or two.

  Shaky and sweaty, I return to the corner and use the board to scrape away the rest of the web. I poke my finger through the crack and trace the opening. Part of the metal roof has pulled away from the wall. Rivets are missing. Probably damage from last winter’s heavy snowfall.

  Maybe, just maybe …

  Using the barrel stave, I whack at the opening, cringing at the hideous clanging noise. I fervently hope Venable and Hunt are at the other end of the compound. Weak moonlight filters through the crack in the shed. I can see tree branches whipping in the wind and hear the plaintive cries of the cat.

  I look around for something to boost me up. From my present position on the floor, I can’t apply the leverage I need. My only option is the bags of manure. I drag five heavy bags, one by one, to the corner and stack them up.

  Sweaty and out of breath, I crouch atop my makeshift platform, my head bowed and pressed against the ceiling, and pry at the opening with my multipurpose weapon-slash-tool. When prying proves fruitless, I use the board as a battering ram, gratified when a rivet gives way and the crack widens. At this speed, I’ll be out of here, say, by the time school starts in the fall.

  I fall into a pattern of banging and prying, prying and banging, pausing occasionally to listen for the approach of my execution squad. When it’s big enough to poke my head through, I check out the surroundings. Venable killed the floodlight, but after stumbling around in the inky darkness, I discover the moonlit farmyard appears as bright as a city street.

  A tree branch, tantalizingly close, waves in the wind. Close enough to grab if I can squeeze through the crack. I see a flicker of movement in the shadows.

  Hurry, Allegra. Hurry. You’re on borrowed time.

  No time for prying and banging. Sucking in deep, anxious breaths, I flop on my back and kick at the roof with both feet, noise be damned. After two hard kicks, I’ve made the gap wide enough to accommodate my shoulders.

 
Sadly, my hips are a different story. Spurred on by the ridiculous image of myself stuck in the crack, waiting for Venable to finish laughing before he finishes me off, I lash out with another kick. The gap widens. I rotate on my back 45 degrees and kick the other end of the crack. With a noisy squawk, rivets pop and metal shrieks. I’m free!

  I hoist my body halfway through the gap and look down. I need to go through feet first, grab the edge, and drop down. Take off my jacket. Lay in over the jagged edge, or … maybe I can reach the tree!

  I wriggle my hips so that my upper torso is hanging out further, no mean feat with sharp pieces of metal snagging my clothes. A little farther and I can grab the branch, climb down the tree, and beat feet to the highway, where I’ll hitch a ride to the police station. This time I won’t take no for an answer.

  The sweep of headlights and sound of a car motor put a swift end to my plan. I freeze, praying the lights won’t hit me. The car stops outside the gate, and the lights flick off. I hear the murmur of voices then silence. Friend or foe, it doesn’t matter; I’m busting out of this damn metal box.

  No time to take off my jacket. I put my hands on the bottom of the opening and push until I can throw one leg over the edge. I bite my lip to keep from crying out as the jagged metal lacerates my palms. Face down and straddling the narrow opening, I teeter crazily in the gusting wind. Panting and swearing under my breath, I try to pull my other leg up and over, but my jeans catch on a bit of metal. I jerk free, lose my balance, and make a desperate grab for the waving tree branch.

  I miss by inches and plummet to the ground, landing with a thud on my outstretched right arm. I feel something tear in my shoulder.

  Moaning softly, I take stock of my body. I roll to a sitting position and watch the arm flop uselessly to my side. I try to lift it, but a burst of agony stops me.

  I grit my teeth, stand up, and slip into the shadow of the shed. I can’t exit the way I entered, not without knowing who lurks outside the gate. Soon, Venable will know I’ve escaped. What he’ll do then is anybody’s guess. Panic? Track me down? Leave the country? And what about the people outside the gate? Have they been summoned by Venable to do the dirty deed?

  Hunt is a cipher. His car is gone. If Sara has indeed been on the premises, perhaps they’ve decided to move her.

  Okay, think, Allegra. Physically, I’m in no condition for another confrontation with Venable. Though I long to run like the wind, I’ll do the opposite. Look for a place to hole up, keep my eyes open, and wait for an escape route.

  I listen for voices, look for signs of movement, then wait until the moon ducks under a cloud before I scurry to the far side of the next outbuilding. Moving in this fashion, I work my way down to the barn, the side Nick and I weren’t able to check out earlier. This end of the barn is dark, but I can see a halo of light leaking through the tall pine next to the back corner.

  Despite the danger, I’m drawn to the light and the possibility that Sara might be close by. Cradling my useless right arm with my left, I sidle along the end of the barn toward the light. I hear a door open and close, a man’s sharp cough and footsteps coming my way. Stepping with care, I slide behind the tree. A flashlight clicks on, and Gordon Venable rounds the corner. I stop breathing. He passes within three yards of my hiding place but strides off toward the upper end of the farmyard and my former prison.

  If I’m going to check out this end of the barn, it has to be now. I peek around the corner and see a small porch and a windowed front door. A light is on behind the tightly closed mini blinds. Nick is right. This end of the barn contains living quarters.

  I step up to the door and put my hand on the knob. Though the blinds are closed, they’re too narrow for the window, leaving a half-inch gap along each side. I press my face against the glass and see a small slice of living room. Battered couch. Old recliner. A coffee table strewn with paperback books and fast-food cartons. No signs of life.

  I’ve just moved to the other side when I hear a door shut and footsteps. Heart pounding, I scoot back into the shadows, pressing up against the side of the building. I wait a few beats and creep back onto the porch. Peering through the crack, I see a hand come into view and hover over the stack of books. It’s followed by a sweep of dark hair and a familiar profile. Sara!

  I don’t realize I’ve said her name aloud until she turns her head slowly toward the door, eyes wide with shock. I grab the doorknob and twist. Locked.

  “Sara, open the door,” I urge in a low voice while I rattle the knob. “It’s me, Miss Thome. Nick and I have been looking for you.”

  Her eyes are wide and staring. She doesn’t move. What the hell’s the matter with her? It’s like she doesn’t know me at all.

  I glance over my shoulder, positive that Venable will be back any minute. Decision time. My arm is useless, and my shoulder throbs painfully. Sara appears to be in some sort of trance. Can I get both of us out safely? Doubtful.

  I feel like I’m failing the people who trust me the most when I step off the porch. I’ll go to ground until the first workers arrive. Venable won’t dare harm me in broad daylight in the presence of others … I hope.

  Two steps into the shadows, I hear the click of a dead-bolt lock and the door flies open. Sara peers into the night. “Ms. Thome?” Her voice is weak and shaky. “What are you doing here?”

  When I step onto the porch, she recoils and backs into the small living room. In better light, I see that her face is pale and drawn, her body painfully thin in oversized denim shorts and a tank top.

  With a quick glance behind me, I enter the room. “I’ve come to take you home,” I say as gently as possible.

  She reacts in horror, throwing up her hands, her dark eyes wide with fear. “No. You can’t …” she begins. “I have to, uh, I have to …”

  She glances toward a hall leading from the living room, takes a tentative step toward it.

  Shocked, confused, and in pain, I’m temporarily without words. What has Sara endured to cause such panic at my sudden appearance? I turn back toward the door. “Sara,” I say softly. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been here.

  I hear a door open, footsteps in the hall. Sara’s eyes come alive. Robinson Hunt steps into the room. She runs to him and throws herself into his arms.

  “Rob. It’s my teacher, Ms. Thome. She’s come to take me home, but I want to stay with you.” She clings to him and stares into his face, a face that turns pasty white when he sees who stands in the living room of his little love nest.

  I bolt for the door and slam into Gordon Venable and a very large, black gun. A real gun.

  I back slowly into the living room, hoping I’ll regain my power of speech and my wits. What else do I have?

  Chapter 30

  Venable steps through the door. “I should just shoot you now, you fuckin’ pain in the ass.” Two spots of red burn high on his cheekbones. His left eye twitches, and a knotted muscle works in his jaw.

  “But that would spoil your little plan,” I hear myself say. I have nothing to gain by showing fear.

  “Plans can be changed.”

  He glances at Hunt still frozen in place with Sara clinging to him. “Jesus Christ! Don’t just stand there,” Venable snarls. “Get something to tie her up. I’ll deal with her after we get the girl out of here.”

  Hunt gently disengages Sara’s hands and tells her where to find the rope. She shambles slowly toward the back of the apartment. When Hunt looks at me, his expression changes. No longer the compassionate saver of souls, he looks like what he is: An ex-con. A pedophile.

  “Sara!” I yell. “His real name is Roy Harris. Your dad knew him at Chino. Do you know your dad is dead? One of these men murdered him. I went to the funeral. I talked to your mom. I saw your little brother.”

  My words come out in a rush. Sara stops and turns to stare at me, her eyes huge and frightened.

  “No!” she whispers. “He can’t be dead.” She takes a step toward Hunt.

  “It’s all right, baby.” Hunt
gathers her into his embrace. “Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t understand.”

  I press harder. “You were great, Sara. You left clues. You wanted us to find you. Remember your letter? The key? Your diary?”

  Her head swivels, and she stares at me. I see the dawning of recognition in her eyes, like a person awakening from a deep sleep.

  “These are bad men, Sara. They killed your father. Don’t listen to them!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Venable screams.

  His eyes flick over to Sara. “Get the God damn rope!”

  She looks up at Hunt. He nods. She leaves the room. My heart sinks.

  Venable yanks a straight-backed chair away from a small wooden table and shoves me into it. I grit my teeth when the back of my shoulder hits the chair. I hear Sara rummaging through drawers.

  Hunt moves close to Venable. “Where are we taking Sara?”

  “Let me worry about that,” Venable says.

  “You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?” I say. “Just like you killed Joe Stepanek. Just like you killed poor Peggy Mooney. It’s the only way you can clean up this mess.”

  Hunt looks shocked.

  “Your mess,” Venable tells Hunt, the corners of his mouth drawn down in disgust. “‘Sara’s the last,’ you said. ‘She’s special,’ you said. How many times do I have to save your sorry ass?”

  Good, the hyenas are turning on each other.

  Though the gun is still aimed at my heart, Venable and Hunt lock gazes in some sort of manly, visual smackdown. I see a shadowy movement at the front door window and turn my head slowly. There! A brief blackout of light on the left edge of the window, like a head bobbing up for a quick peek. Somebody is outside the door.

  Hunt finally breaks the silence. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Gordy.”

  The menace in his voice is unmistakable. “You don’t touch that girl. Understand?”

  “I guess you’re the only one who gets to do that,” I chime in, hoping to keep their eyes away from the front door.